


Pinterest was the scientist, you’re thinking of Pinterest's monster

by epphfervescent



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, I think I’m overshooting w/ the rating but whatever, Light BDSM, M/M, Married Sex, Navel Play, POV Fingon, POV Second Person, Post-Coital, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, THIS IS REAL SOFT AND VANILLA IM DYIN SCOOB, Trans Male Character, belly kisses but that’s not a tag, its mostly tongue in cheek abt heterosexuals but some of it comes out bdsm-y, let maedhros nap 2k20, no i don’t know what that means, post-oral sex, trans!maedhros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22186435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epphfervescent/pseuds/epphfervescent
Summary: Fingon records a pronoun-bent ukulele cover of Paul Anka’s 1975 hit (You’re) Having My Baby. Maedhros is boutta end this man’s whole career, possibly by sleep-talking.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Pinterest was the scientist, you’re thinking of Pinterest's monster

**Author's Note:**

> 2 b fair I have a Pinterest. 2 b extra fair maedhros is meaner about literally everything than I am, except maybe his dad’s leadership skills.
> 
> I took some microfic prompts on my tumblr, this was filled for the prompt ‘undone’. Anon, obi juan, whoever the fuck you were, I lost the plot on ‘micro’ but here

“Are you going to do that all night?” Maedhros asks, hoarse as he always is after coming undone for you. 

You hadn’t known he was awake enough to watch you, honestly. By his deep, even breathing and his heels slipping from their bruising hold around your back, you thought he’d fallen asleep a while ago. 

You kiss his stomach. Once, twice, and distract from your little compulsion long enough to answer, “Maybe,” mumbled against his skin. “I have—“ you press another kiss to the dark line running down his middle— “really good mouth stamina.” 

Maedhros barks a laugh. “I know.” His hands come up and he sort of—hangs them, on your ears. “You’ve proven it already. Several times.”

You glance up his body at him and find him looking back, an unpinned expression on his face. Maedhros cards through your hair, fingers moving with the same lassitude that’s taken over the rest of him and you hum, pleased. You match him at it, slow and languorous as you kiss his navel, tongue pressing the shallow twist of flesh. You once could have licked in deep, but the bulging womb beneath has stretched it almost flat. 

Maedhros’ breath catches, his belly hitching under your nose. Given the strain the distorted skin is under, you wonder how sensitive he is here.  Tonguing open-mouthed you glance up at Maedhros again, not stopping.

He’s watching with something close to focus, to reawakened interest, his own reddened, near-bruised mouth open in a small, distracted _o_.  That, more than the taste under your tongue, stirs something in your softened cock. 

“Have I proven it?” You murmur. “Maybe I wasn’t finished with you.” You’re inordinately pleased when his thighs twitch underneath you. 

Leaving his spit-slicked bellybutton to chill in the raw January air seeping in through the apartment windows, you turn your attention to his turgid underbelly. Your lips press there so delicately you hardly breathe, and at  _that_ he shivers. 

“So I’d better let you to it?” he says, tripping on the edges of the words. 

“Mm-hmm.” Your fingers have been playing along Maedhros’ back and sides where his body’s still soft, before the skin stretches into his tight, swollen front, but you bring your hands up now to cup his pregnancy properly. “You have a lot of belly to get to, is the thing, and what would happen if I missed— _this_ bit, here? Tragedy. Can’t rush these things.”

To _let you_ may be easier to grasp for than to _want you_ , but his knees slide up to bracket you with the latter, just the same. You feel his sigh as much as hear it and, peripherally, catch his eyes slipping shut, head falling back. 

You bend back to your task, blanketing kisses over the lower curve of Maedhros’ stomach in a steady scatter, your palms running up his sides. And then switch, neck dipping, coming up slowly on your intent: to have every part, every inch of his swollen belly blotted by your attentions. 

It’s absorbing; _Maedhros_ is absorbing, his fingers still tangled in your hair. You  _started_ this just dropping a quick, sympathetic kiss on the slight distension of his diastasis, as you crawled out from between his thighs, and were quickly overtaken by a blossoming fondness. You have it back, again, as you mouth the dip between his pregnant belly and his ribs. 

“Maybe you’re just,” you start, unaware you had anything to continue the conversation with. Most of his stretch marks are on the bottom of his stomach but there’s one, scattered up here—you nose it, and come up thinking what he is is indescribable, just this minute. You shrug, for cover. “Maybe I just like kissing your belly.”

Maedhros doesn’t open his eyes—you think he might really be asleep this time, but his brows quirk wryly. “You like doing  _whatever_ if it involves my belly.”

“Are you fishing?” You smirk. “Do you want to do one of those—Pinterest photo shoots, with the blocks and the Christmas lights—“

“ _Please_ , no. I thought we agreed, clip art for the gender reveal party invitations.”

You rest your cheek on his belly, and in your most put-upon voice say, “That’s déclassé; you can’t send that to any prospective business contacts and we’ll lose the opportunity to network.”

“You’re straight bullying me, now.”

“Sure; it’s uh—degradation kink.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were playing,” he says sleepily. “Yes sir, then.” He stretches happily as you rub over his lower belly, exerting gentle pressure on the spots over his hipbones he pretends aren’t sore. “And, um, some stuff about how slutty and knocked up I am.” 

You snort, and Maedhros finally cracks open an eye. 

“Oh no sir, cleverness is for chads sir.  _Please_ garrote my stomach with tinsel in a wheat field, sir—I submit myself to your _superior_ knowledge of the subject. Sir.”

“You’re a shit sub, you know that?”

Maedhros makes a noncommittal sound, or tries to make a noncommittal sound out of a sigh as you start massaging his hips properly. He grins drowsily for the killing blow. “At least I don’t have a Pinterest.”

“ _Oh_ . Well. Oh. That’s just. Reverse bigotry.” Crawling out from between his legs, you sink down on the mattress next to Maedhros. “So much for the tolerant left,” you huff, and pull your loose-limbed husband into your arms. 

“See? For chads,” he says, wiggling into you. 

“Shush, you xylophone of elbows,” you wheeze, as the point of one gets you in the ribs. 

“Yes sir.” 

You  _sigh_ , hands resettling on his hips, massaging again. Maedhros goes to push his nose into your neck but you won’t have it, not with that mouth so temptingly close. You press into his ass with the pinch of fingernails, until he puts enough bones back in his neck to look up at you, blearily unimpressed. You kiss him anyway. 

Fingertips find your jaw, and his mouth opens for you. You slip your tongue under his teeth and he— _purrs,_ throat primed for the raw vibrato by taking your cock. 

“You,” he rumbles when you pull apart, “still taste like me.” And this time he grins, and you shiver. 

You rally to kiss him back when he leans in, to rub over his bloated waist, and in return for that Maedhros moans into your mouth when your fingers press in circles on his side. 

“Mm. That feels nice. Have I said that?” he asks suddenly, brows up inquiringly and eyes slipping shut. 

“No,” you reply, amused. 

”No?” He shifts again, wriggling for better access to your ministrations, or maybe just to settle his pregnancy in a tolerable position. “Well. It does.” His head flops on your shoulder. “ _You_ do. Feel nice.”

“Captain of his debate team, this one—ow, no _elbows_ .”

You feel his smirk on your collarbones. With a last wriggle he seems to get comfortable, melting into your chest with a sigh. You keep up the steady squeeze of his belly and hips, and the small, pleased murmurs come less and less. Within minutes Maedhros is mostly dead weight in your arms, but the fondness is blooming still, petals up your throat, and won’t be put to rest. 

You nudge Maedhros’ cheek with your chin and whisper, “Hey.”

“Ghmph,” says Maedhros. 

“Are you awake still?”

“Nuh,” says Maedhros. 

“You’re wonderful.” You smooth over his belly, up his back to the knots on his spine. “You’re—wonderful, I love you.”

You get indistinct murmurs in a string, this time. Pitched _warm_ , paired with his arms curling tight around your neck. 

All things considered, you’ll take it. You close your eyes yourself, holding Maedhros close, the firm, warm weight of his belly wedged between you.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel all stale writing from Fingon’s POV always but the way he’s just CONSTANTLY SCRIPTING his vow renewal is literary catnip??? 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr if you misspell effervescent this same way.


End file.
